


I Dreamt of You

by kayisdreaming



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: CF recruited Sylvain, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Language, Reincarnation AU, non-recruited CF Felix, references to academy sylvix, the casphart is mentioned it's not a focus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27047170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/pseuds/kayisdreaming
Summary: Felix has memories of a past life--of a war-torn world, a smiling readhead, and a miserable death. He thinks they're just dreams, until he sees that man during his waking hours, and everything floods in.Sylvain only sees a cute guy working at a gym.__Alternatively: A reincarnated Felix and Sylvain see eachother; Felix remembers, Sylvain does not.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 124





	I Dreamt of You

**Author's Note:**

> Most clarifiers that aren't extremely important are in the end notes. This is essentially made off of [this image.](https://twitter.com/kayisdreaming/status/1309885448945197056)

Felix groaned, rubbing his face. Mornings had never been pleasant, even with the aid of caffeine. But not even coffee could spare him from the anxiety that curled up his spine, or the exhaustion that sat on his shoulders.

Because the fact was: he couldn’t recall the last time he woke feeling rested. No, every night was disturbed by the man in his dreams—and no, not the sort of sickeningly sweet, corny, romantic sort of ‘dream guy.’

No, it was the one of his persistent nightmares.

_Red locks tinged with blood. A golden gaze glimmering with loathing and accusation. Armor dull and beaten in the sun. A glowing lance, brought down upon him._

He twitched, fingers pressing into the warm ceramic of his cup. It was grounding, solid. The scalding liquid within was enough of a reminder; there was the real world, and there was the dream one. Everyone knew the difference. Everyone knew the latter didn’t matter.

And, for a long time, even while his dreams were redundant, Felix believed that.

He believed that his dreams as a child were there to fill a craving that he could never fulfill. That the red headed kid in his dreams—the bright ray of sun that Felix incessantly followed, soaking in the warmth of his smile and the sweetness of his laugh—was the friend that Felix wanted but could never have. Every night was another day with this boy, doing things that Felix couldn’t even hope for in his waking moments, drowning in at-home lessons and spared only by his brother’s occasional visits.

As he got older, the boy in his dreams grew with him. It was unnoticeable until Felix’s teen years, when the dreams developed into something more . . . lascivious. He assumed it was something echoed from what he dealt with in his waking hours—pining, longing, displays of affection. It was nothing he wanted from those in his world—they were all petty fools who were so wrapped up in the frivolities of high school that they couldn’t even consider that anything else could matter—but he did envy the affection and touches they offered each other. This dream boy, though, offered soft whispers, gentle touches, affectionate eyes glimmering and smile sly in a way that made Felix wake up breathless come morning.

But then Glenn died and Felix’s dreams were no longer sweet and pleasant, instead cruel like the world around him. The warm world warped into one of fire, blood, and war. Bodies falling around him, shouts whipping around with the wind.

When Felix left home to struggle on his own, the dreams changed again. The same hopeless hellscape, the same war. But he was losing.

_His body is uncooperative and sluggish, forcing him to his knees. He tries to use his sword to stand, but it is pointless. The click of armor echoes in his head as the glow of an impossible weapon radiates in a pool of his own blood. He looks up, and his friend, his love, his—his everything—merely stares down at him like he is worthless. The redhead, soaked in blood, raises his lance and strikes._

It made sense to connect his life and the dream world. Normal people might have dreamt about losing their pants or being chased by dragons, but it wasn’t unusual for Felix to dream of a foreign land and a strange fantasy and a nonexistent boy. Besides, people had nightmares all the time, and it was never really a point of concern.

At least he thought so, until he saw that man leaning against the wall of an alleyway, face half-shadowed by the light peeking out a door. Gold eyes shimmered in the light when his gaze met Felix’s, the smile on his lips familiar in a way that sent a chill up Felix’s spine.

Felix fled.

It was shameful, when he allowed himself to think about it. Felix had never run from anything in his life. Bruised limbs and black eyes were the trademarks of his stubbornness, his unwillingness to back down from a challenge. Almost everyone in the district knew that, knew that their challenges would not go ignored, that—at the end of it—they would be a heap on the floor, their blood on his knuckles and a victorious smile on his face.

And yet, he fled like a dog with his tail between his legs.

A part of his mind tried to reason with itself; people never appeared from nowhere when it came to dreams. It was supposed to be someone you knew, someone you’d seen but could never register. It wouldn’t be strange to run into that person in the streets.

But even Felix knew that didn’t explain it. It was impossible to grow up with this strange boy. After all, he’d only lived in the Gautier district for five years, and before that he had bounced from place to place, and before that he was a solitary kid in a house too big for him. So it _had_ to be something else.

And it had to mean something that Felix’s instinct—which was just about as aggressive as he was—begged him to flee. Not just that first time, but again and again. Every time Felix saw that hair as he walked to work, or could feel those eyes upon him as he picked up coffee, or ignored the smile as he jogged in the park. It set Felix’s nerves alight, paranoia flowing through his veins faster than caffeine could ever hope to accomplish.

“Oh, thank the Goddess.” The voice made Felix twitch, but he was at least able to maintain enough dignity to not jump from his seat like a frightened child. “I thought no one was in, yet.”

Felix glanced over his shoulder, arm resting on the back of his chair to keep himself still. Ignatz stood just inside the door, leaning against it like he needed it to stand. His face was flushed, as if he had been running around the whole gym to find a trace of any instructor. At least it was probably easy to run, since Felix could only hear the clicks of some of the equipment through the wood of the door.

“I need you to take an appointment.” Ignatz said, pushing his glasses up. The tablet in his hand glowed with another notification.

“I don’t do early appointments.” Frankly, it was a miracle that he was even here this early. But it was the only way he’d been able to continuously avoid the man on his walk to work, and it gave him enough time to train out the nerves in his system. It didn’t help much with the bags under his eyes, but he’d had those since Glenn died, so there was nothing new there.

“I know, I know.” Ignatz pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s one of Caspar’s, but he’s out sick.”

Felix snorted. ‘Sick’ was a kind way to put it. If history meant anything, it meant that Caspar was under that cat he called a boyfriend, stuck while the guy snoozed the day away. It was an incredibly lazy attempt to get Caspar to take a break—but it would have been nice if he’d warned the gym beforehand.

“It’s a personal lesson. Advanced class.” Ignatz rubbed the back of his neck, the ink on his fingers smudging his skin. “Raphael isn’t here yet, either, so . . . please?”

Felix stood, walking to the one-way glass that lined their wall. It had been a safety precaution installed ages before Felix had ever come here—certainly a luxury considering the size of their gym—meant to allow the staff to take a break and still watch over their customers. In the whole time he’d worked here, though, Felix could only remember running out the door once to stop whatever he saw in the window.

His gaze fell over the room. Most of the machines were still empty, many of the private rooms dark. The bathroom lights were off, meaning no one had gone in to take their showers, either. There were a few people at the front desk—likely waiting for Ignatz to return so he could take their names and get the waivers signed for their entry badges.

“Who is it?” He asked, narrowing his eyes. The girl with pink hair and manicured nails hardly looked _advanced_.

“He’s in already.” Ignatz said, pressing against Felix’s shoulder as he peered into the room. “Treadmill by room A for a warmup.”

Felix’s gaze shifted to the other end of the room, where a man seemed to just finish cooling down. Red hair was slicked back by a thin layer of sweat, chest heaving as he slowed his breathing. The man glanced at room A before looking back to the office.

And if it weren’t for the glass between them, Felix would be _certain_ that those golden eyes saw him.

Felix struggled to repress a shudder. “No.”

Ignatz blinked. “What? Why?”

What was a kind way to put it that wouldn’t alarm Ignatz? It wasn’t like Felix particularly cared what the other guy thought, but there was some level of professionalism required here.

Felix crossed his arms. “Pretty sure he’s a stalker. I’ve seen him everywhere the last two months.”

Ignatz looked startled, but he had to get some credit for stifling it under an air of ease. “Why didn’t you mention that before? He’s been here for years, but I’m sure we could—”

“He’s what?”

“Um, yeah. He’s been a customer since we opened. Usually he takes the earliest appointment available.” He fidgeted. “Though I suppose you wouldn’t see him, since you come in later.” Ignatz blinked and glanced over. “You don’t think maybe you see him a lot because it’s a small district?”

Felix pressed his lips together. He supposed that made sense. Small operation as they were, they were the only one within a few miles of Gautier. Equipment was expensive, and the district wasn’t exactly the safest. Which meant anyone within a few-miles’ radius would come here, if they wanted to stay safe.

That didn’t explain why Felix kept seeing him _everywhere_.

“What room?”

“Uh, are you sure?” Ignatz tapped at his screen, narrowing his eyes. “I could just tell him that no one is in yet. I could reschedule.”

No, he wasn’t sure. But he couldn’t explain it away if he just petulantly stood in limbo. He had to face this problem _somehow_.

“Just give me the room.”

“Room A.”

Felix nodded, stepping out of the room. He walked past a few people at the weights, eye running over their form. Not perfect, but there was enough effort to avoid being sloppy.

His gaze snapped forward to the redhead stretching and yawning. His tank top stretched far too tight against his skin, the definition visible with each movement and breath. The shorts he wore were just barely long enough, giving way too much visibility to the toning of his thighs and calves. If Felix didn’t have his stomach churning with the dream of the lance, then he _might_ find him attractive.

Admittedly, there were some details that were different from the dream incarnation. There was the obvious: neither of them were in armor, and there was no sign of that strange glowing spear.

But then there were also less subtle things; his hair was cut differently—somewhere between boyish and that of the adult—certainly with plenty of effort wasted to make it look messy; his eyes glistened under the bright lighting as he looked around, but they both lacked the overwhelming energy of the dream child and the emptiness of its adult counterpart. The tiredness was still there, though, settling right beneath his eyes. As was the lopsided smile, clearly not reflective of how he felt.

Felix crossed his arms as he approached. “Caspar is out.” He said, words clipped. “I’m your substitute.”

The man glanced over, smile sliding into something almost painfully amiable. “I’m Sylvain.” He said, offering his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Felix glanced down at the offending hand before clasping it with his own. It was fine; he knew at least three ways to down a man with so minor a point of contact. “Felix.” 

It was strange; Sylvain was so familiar to Felix, but there wasn’t even the inkling of recognition on Sylvain’s face. There was no fondness of the child and teen, nor any rage or judgement from the adult. Just a tempered casualness of two men meeting for business. It truly was like they were meeting for the first time.

Maybe he _was_ imagining it.

Felix pulled his hand away. “Come on, then.” He said, pushing the door to the training room open.

He blinked as the automatic lights flickered on, each coming to life as he walked across the room. Practice mats offered some resistance to each step, spreading across the entirety of the room—with the exception of some spots reserved for practice weapons and other gear.

As he glanced at their reflection in the mirrors that lined the wall, it wasn’t hard to compare the two of them. Felix was almost a full head shorter. While everything about Sylvain seemed purposeful and preening, Felix looked like someone who had literally just rolled out of bed. His hair was tied in a rather lazy ponytail, most of his hairs strewn about. His clothes were a mismatched mixture of loose and firm—tank top pressed against his skin so he wouldn’t get caught in it, and work out pants loose in a way that barely made them seem a step above sweatpants. He looked like he’d been enduring about a week’s worth of all-nighters—even though he bitterly wished that would be the case, instead of whatever the hell his problem _actually_ was.

“I gotta ask,” Sylvain said, resting his hands behind his head as Felix turned to face him, “what’s your specialty?”

“It hardly matters.” Felix said, crossing his arms once more.

Sylvain tilted his head. “Why’s that?”

“You were training with Caspar, which means you’re only practicing brawling. The only thing that matters is that I’ll serve as a decent substitute.”

“Well,” Sylvain frowned, “I actually just came here to get some experience fighting. Doesn’t really matter to me what kind.”

Felix’s eyebrow twitched, struggling to keep his expression neutral. What sort of attitude was _that_? Thinking that all fighting could be regarded the same was like thinking soup was the same thing as a four-course meal. Try to eat one like the other, and you’d starve or choke. 

Instead, he tried a tamer response. “It’s not the same. It takes different training to avoid getting hurt.” Annoyance lingered on his tongue, but he could at least give himself credit for the words.

Sylvain shrugged. “Look, I work as a sort of guard for my dad’s bar. I’ve had to deal with everything from fists, to knives, to—once—someone tried to knock me out with a metal pole. Frankly, I’m just hoping for anything that can keep me from getting killed out there.”

Felix narrowed his eyes. “He doesn’t give you protective equipment?”

“Nothing I can’t bring myself.” Sylvain’s fingers sparked with some magic as he wiggled them. “But anything useful? No.”

Well, this conversation wasn’t completely pointless. There were only a few bars in the area that toed the line between a lawless wasteland and within police authority. In Gautier, those lines were even more defined, only blurred where the tumult of turf wars and Gautier’s tightening hold clashed. Which meant that there were only three bars that Felix had to explicitly avoid.

“You know brawling, we’ll brawl.” Felix insisted.

“You almost considered it.” Sylvain pouted.

If he wasn’t before, he _definitely_ was now. “If I use a training sword, I will throttle you.” And, tempting as that idea was, he still would rather have his job.

“How do you know I don’t know how to use one?”

“Swordsmanship requires discipline. And you’re training with _Caspar_.”

Sylvain laughed. “Oh, so you _do_ have a sense of humor.” He shifted his stance, fists up. “How about you try me, anyway? Hit me with your best shots.”

Felix rolled his eyes, crossing the rest of the room to the equipment stands. This was _stupid_. Even brawling, Felix would have the upper hand. He had experience; he did this every day as his _job_. And Sylvain was instead asking for his best—just asking to get annihilated.

His fingers paused on the grip of a foam sword. It was more useful for form practice, meant to get someone to understand the movements before they got into anything weightier. While it was hefty, it wasn’t as bad as the wooden swords and practice foils.

But it could still leave bruises. Maybe some pain would knock some sense into him.

“Last chance to rethink this.” Felix said, sliding into position.

“You aren’t gonna argue anymore?”

“Customer is always right.” Felix drawled, his words bitter.

Sylvain laughed again. “Somehow I don’t think you believe that.”

Before Felix could even think of a retort, Sylvain charged. Felix shifted to the defensive and lingered in that role; it was easier to evaluate his opponent, easier to pick apart their skills and find their weaknesses.

Sylvain’s hits were powerful, each strike thumping hard into the foam in a way that thrummed through the core and into Felix’s hands. The strength was his only real advantage though; each strike was slow, and his mobility while fighting was limited. It made it easy for Felix to parry most blows with the sword, and dodge around those he couldn’t block. Even if he had been training here for years, Sylvain was still obviously an amateur, leaving Felix at an advantage.

As such, it was too easy to dodge an attack and slide into the offensive, each strike coming as easy to him as breathing. He was relentless as he struck against Sylvain’s arms—the guy at least sensible enough to know how to block hits to his face, torso, and sides. It was easy to get Sylvain to step and retreat as he wanted, to find that single moment where his steps faltered.

And then Felix swiped Sylvain’s legs out from under him, satisfied at the loud thud of his back hitting padding that wasn’t quite soft enough to ease the blow.

Felix pointed his impromptu weapon at Sylvain’s throat. “You’re a reckless fighter. If this were a metal pole, I would have shattered your bones. If this were a sword, you would have bled out.”

Sylvain smiled, chest heaving with every one of his panting breaths. “You’re really no joke.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t stand a chance.”

Felix’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

Sylvain’s smile slid into something sly, but by the time Felix realized, it was too late. Sylvain’s free arm shot out, hand wrapping around Felix’s ankle. Before Felix could compensate, the world was spinning and the air was knocked out of his lungs.

And Sylvain was positioned above him, a hand pressed against Felix’s shoulder to pin him. “Now who isn’t taking this seriously?” He leaned in a bit closer, his weight pressing Felix more into the padding. “A real fight doesn’t end till one of us can’t fight anymore.”

_A face above his, no one but the redhead—the dream boy—no, Sylvain. His smile is soft, sweet. Fingers lace into Felix’s hair as he leans down, leans close—_

_—A blood red sky sits above Felix, the sun hot on his face but body chilled. Everything hurts, and he can’t get up. He can only look up at the sky at Sylvain as he kneels down by his side. Felix’s vision is too blurry to make out the expression, and—_

Felix blinked, chest tightening with every breath. Panic settled into his chest again, limbs begging desperately for some escape. No, _no_. He had to see this through. Had to know what was real, and what was just in his mind.

And Sylvain was an amateur, grip too loose and too much space between them. Felix kicked up, jamming a leg between them and using the momentum to flip their positions. He pressed his knee against Sylvain’s chest—putting as much weight as was safe there—and pinned each of his wrists.

Felix bent slightly, his long bangs brushing against Sylvain’s nose and his breaths more labored than he’d like. “How far do you plan on taking this?”

Sylvain grinned.

It wasn’t much warning, but it was enough. Sylvain bucked up his hips, sending Felix rolling over him. Felix used that momentum to tumble, to get himself back to his feet. It should have surprised him that Sylvain was already up and ready, too, but it didn’t.

Perhaps it would only be surprising if Sylvain _didn’t_ do something unexpected.

Felix was first to strike this time, but the match was different. Felix wasn’t as good of a brawler as he was a swordsman, and Sylvain’s style had shifted dramatically—as if he started putting in effort once he knew he had a chance.

The strength of each punch had diminished, but it made Sylvain’s strikes and recoveries faster. He still wasn’t as fast as Felix, but he was fast enough. Felix was forced onto the defensive. He dodged and blocked, waiting for an opportunity.

As he bade his time, he found Sylvain’s strikes were considerably less sloppy, too. He knew how to guard himself after each attack, how to move in a way that afforded no openings. It was like he knew how fast Felix could be, and wasn’t going to chance any sort of counteroffensive. It would be impressive, if it wasn’t infuriating.

But there was _something_ , Felix noticed. Though gradual, Sylvain’s attacks were slowing. The potency of each strike diminished, too. Which meant that—even if Sylvain was strong, fast, and skilled—he had very little stamina. So Felix waited, and watched.

And the exhaustion left a small opening, but it was enough. Felix swung around with a swift kick straight to Sylvain’s side, knocking him off his feet. Sylvain coughed, then he gasped, then he just fell onto his back, letting gravity help him with his breathing.

Felix stepped up—mindfully keeping out of arm’s reach—at least to make sure he hadn’t gravely injured the man. “Do you yield?” He asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Sylvain panted, “absolutely.”

Felix hummed a response, eyes falling over Sylvain’s body. There were definitely bruises already forming, but by the look and sound of it, nothing seemed broken. And, to Sylvain’s benefit, Felix had managed to avoid his face.

“You,” Sylvain paused to take another few breaths, “you don’t hold back, do you?”

Felix opened his mouth, but wasn’t given the opportunity to speak.

The door slammed open, the owner of a familiar blue undercut practically running inside. “I’m so sorry I’m late! You see—uh . . .” Caspar blinked, looking between Felix and Sylvain, “everything alright in here?”

Felix turned on his heel, taking the exit without argument. “You can handle the rest of your appointment.”

As he walked out, he could hear Caspar whisper, “You piss him off or something?”

An incredulous laugh. “You mean he’s not always like that?”

Felix shut the door before he could hear the response. He didn’t need to know what Sylvain thought of him. All he needed to know—and had just confirmed—was that he could handle Sylvain if his dreams ever happened to be a warning.

Felix tried to focus during the rest of his appointments, but it was difficult. He had to be thankful that most of his sessions were for simple things—spotting for safety, or observing as they did cardio, or things of a simple nature. His mind kept wandering to the spar, to the first real challenge he’d had since he left the Hresvelg district—since Glenn had died. It was the first time in a long time that he felt like he _could_ have lost.

_There’s a blade in his hand, and a polearm in Sylvain’s. Between them, a small expanse of dirt and stone, their footsteps etched into the ground with their practice. They charge at each other—Felix always somehow at an advantage, and Sylvain somehow still surprising._

_Then all Felix can focus on is the smile and the groans and the pout. The sensation of Sylvain’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, breath against Felix’s ear as he whispers something._

Felix physically twitched, shaking his head as he handed the customer their credit card. They might have exchanged words, but Felix lacked the presence of mind to remember it seconds later.

He dreamt. Something new. In daylight.

The dreams were just that—dreams. They were things he could dread before bed, think about when he woke. But not once in his life had they ever come to his waking world. A shudder rolled up his spine.

Maybe he was just tired. Or hungry. Some state of mind that would let his mind wander in a way it hadn’t before. That was the only logical explanation.

Exhaling softly, he glanced to Ignatz beside him. The afternoon hours tended to be slow, giving the other plenty of opportunities to sketch and design. There were the dull things that he usually brought in—studies and rigid techniques to emulate and things of that sort—but then there were the works like this one. A natural piece of trees and rolling hills and fields that neither of them had ever seen—not within the bustle of the city and the natural escape too far for them to afford. A paradise, where no one could bother them or burden them with the tasks and expectations they never wanted.

He shook his head. “I’m going to take lunch.”

Ignatz glanced up at the clock. “A little early, isn’t it?”

Felix shrugged. “I have no appointments and Raphael has the floor. Might as well take it early.”

“Alright. Just don’t go late.”

Felix waved his hand, scanning his badge, dodging around a couple people just coming in, and left. He didn’t have much spare change for the month, but he knew a decent restaurant that added plenty of heat to make up for any lack of flavor. Maybe it would burn away those images flashing through his mind, too.

An arm wrapped around his shoulders; Felix didn’t even let the weight settle before he spun around, jabbing his elbow hard into the offender’s side. He then ducked low, jumping back in enough time to put some space between them. Depending on their height, he could probably place a good kick to get a few more blocks’ advantage.

Instead, he found himself blinking once he realized _who_ it was.

“Twice in one day!” Sylvain groaned, doubling over as he rubbed at his side. “That’s gonna bruise.”

Felix’s fists curled at his sides. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Sylvain blinked up, an eyebrow slowly raising. “Um, saying ‘hello’?”

Felix’s scowl deepened. He brushed past Sylvain, instead trying to focus on the restaurant and the hope that the line wouldn’t be too long. “I’m not interested.”

To his dismay, he could hear footsteps following behind him. “Look,” he said, voice soft in a clear attempt at placation, “I clearly did something to make you mad. And whatever I did, I apologize.”

Felix chewed the inside of his cheek. Who apologized for something when they didn’t even know what they did? “Not. Interested.”

“Oh, come on.” Sylvain groaned. “Let me at least try to make it up to you. How about lunch? On me.”

Felix snarled, his annoyance burning more than his caution. He spun around, glaring up furiously at the redhead, even as the man raised his hand defensively. “I've tried to be patient with you, but I'm tired of holding my tongue. Go find someone else to flirt with.”

This annoyance and frustration clearly made no sense and only infuriated him more. He’d been flirted with before, and it was easy to ignore. He’d been pestered before, and that was easy, too. So why was this different?

_Felix groans, walking back from his chores at the stable. So much work—extra work—to cover for a friend who never showed up. He storms through the campus, looking for Sylvain to give him a piece of his mind._

_And then he finds him, hidden in the nook between two buildings. Sylvain’s fingers are wrapped in brunette locks, tipping an unknown girl’s head back for easy access to her jaw and throat as he presses kisses. The girl makes the most pleased noises, shifting her own leg in a way that earns a pleased noise from Sylvain._

_For only a moment, their gazes lock. Felix storms off._

Felix blinked. No, that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted a real, tangible reason. Not a dream-memory that kept blurring the lines between imagination and reality. He wanted to yell at his own brain, to just make it stop.

Well, he at least knew one thing that started it.

“I’m not asking for a date.” The offender said, still persistently shadowing Felix’s steps. “Look, if that's the impression I've given you, then I'm sorry.”

Felix glared at the sidewalk as he kept walking. “Then what doyou want?”

Sylvain quickened his pace, bringing himself to Felix’s side. Even in his periphery, Felix could see him grin. “You’re the best fight I’ve had in ages. I wanted to ask if you’d be my sparring partner.”

“No.”

“See, I knew you’d say that because you’re still mad.” Sylvain laughed, but it was weak. When Felix didn’t entertain his humor, Sylvain sighed. “Come on, please at least let me make it up to you.”

Felix glanced over at him. “What do you think you’re apologizing for?”

“I dunno.” Sylvain frowned, glancing up at the sky like it had an answer. He stretched, resting his hands behind his head. “I just feel bad and want to make it up to you.”

Felix glanced over at him, lips pressed together. It was self-preservation to reject Sylvain—he knew that. Things had become unbalanced when he first saw him, and certainly things would go back to normal when he went away.

Besides, Felix had only known him for a few hours, but he already knew that Sylvain was persistent and insufferable. So, really, it would be better for him to just break whatever imaginary connection Sylvain built between them, and let that be that.

But . . . but even Felix couldn’t deny that it was wrong to blame a man for what his dream-copy did.

“Just one.” He said, scowling back at the street.

Sylvain smiled so brightly that it made Felix’s head hurt.

_Felix sits in what must be a dining hall of some sort, a lavish meal in front of him. Sylvain is beside him, laughing as he talks to a blonde girl who sits across from them. Felix doesn’t care to hear their conversation, and instead focuses on his food. He has things to do, and knows he can’t waste time just fooling around._

_A hand rests on his knee, and Felix slows his chewing. He nudges Sylvain’s foot; Sylvain doesn’t have to acknowledge it—he never misses anything._

_Felix is rewarded for his patience later by being pressed against the nearest wall in the training area, Sylvain stealing every breath and noise from his lips. Felix scolds the bastard for smiling so much—but even Sylvain knows that it’s hollow. He kisses Felix again and again—everywhere but his lips—until Felix is squirming and cursing Sylvain with every breath he actually manages to get out._

_When Sylvain looks up at him, those golden eyes are lifeless, hollow. Blood drips down from his hair onto Felix’s skin._

Felix woke with a groan, glaring down at his phone as his alarm yelled at him. He rolled over in his bed, flicking through the screens. Missed calls (no one important), missed texts (no one he cared about), and email (all spam). Nothing of value, and ultimately nothing that could serve as a decent distraction.

A distraction to a problem that he definitely couldn’t deny now.

There always used to be two rules to this whole situation. 1) the dreams were just that—dreams. No interruptions into his normal life (aside from exhaustion, anyway), and no thoughts straying from his own in the waking world. 2) the dreams were always chronological. While some may have repeated between days, they never went backward and they never went forward. And, after he left home, it was _only_ that one battlefield dream. No reprieves with old dreams, no glimmers of anything pleasant or remotely enjoyable.

That it changed now was mortifying.

He sighed, opening the browser on his phone.

_‘Dreaming of the same person’_ he entered. He scoffed at the results: feelings of worry, or missing them, or wanting something they have. Then the ‘obvious’ one: romantic feelings.

He groaned and tried again. _‘Recurring dreams’_ , he entered this time. Most results indicated an unresolved and persistent conflict. Well, Sylvain was a problem _now_ , but that didn’t explain the years before. Well, at least none of _these_ pointed toward romance.

He scrolled down a bit more, pausing as his finger hovered over something unusual _. ‘Reincarnation’_ glowed in blue letters on the screen, and Felix pressed it before he even thought about how absolutely stupid it was.

The article described multiple theories of reincarnation; finite numbers of souls, or perhaps a soul so powerful or so traumatized that it had to pass through the world one more time. Some souls cleansed, some still grasping onto memories of the past. Sometimes things would resonate with the memories within the soul—and the old soul would come to the forefront. 

Felix rubbed his face. He never really thought he was one for such sentimental nonsense. Clinging to memories of the past only held one back; dwelling on the dead only sucked the life from the living. But could the same be said if it was his _own_ death that he was dwelling on?

No, this was stupid. Felix tossed his phone aside, pulling on his clothes for the day. They were just dreams—dreams that probably just warned him that redheads were trouble. The day flashes were just a symptom of exhaustion, maybe a lack of caffeine. It wasn’t some soul resonation or anything like that.

The solution was still simple: if Sylvain was gone, things could go back to normal.

He stepped out of his apartment, heading down the street to work. There was a rather poor excuse for a coffee machine in the break room. It wasn’t like it really mattered whether it tasted burnt or not; caffeine was caffeine at this point. Besides, maybe the bitterness would serve as a distraction.

Once he made it to the gym’s street, he pulled out his phone, flipping through the calendar. It didn’t look like he had another appointment for an hour. He could walk the floor for a bit, get a warm up in. The girl he scheduled was remarkably skilled in hand-to-hand, so he could alleviate some stress there.

He scanned his badge, pocketing his phone. He could also just relax for a bit before he changed into workout clothes— _that_ was perhaps the most absurd notion he had all day. Though it would be nice, if he could just hide away for a bit, avoid even a chance of—

He scowled, eyes falling onto a figure that was becoming far too familiar these days.

Sylvain, ever so oblivious, just grinned at him. “Good morning.” He said, shifting his weight on his hip. “I was actually starting to get concerned, you know. Caspar told me that you always come in later. Guess our first meeting was just special, huh?”

Felix rolled his eyes. He’d have to murder Caspar for that when he saw him. “Why were you looking for me?” He asked, annoyance clear in his clipped words.

Sylvain shrugged. “I told you yesterday. I want you to be my sparring partner.”

Felix couldn’t decide whether he wanted to be annoyed or impressed. “You never give up, do you?”

Sylvain grinned. “I try to stay on an even keel.”

Felix shook his head. “You’re always—”

He snapped his mouth shut. How would he know what Sylvain _always_ was? He only knew him for the sum of five hours, at most. How would he know what he was like, or what he did, or what he preferred?

Especially since Sylvain was _not_ the dream man.

But Sylvain’s smile widened. “Always what?”

Felix decided to glare at the wall just to Sylvain’s left instead. “Nothing.”

“Come on.” Was that a pout? A grown man was _pouting_. “If you’ve got something on your mind, then say it.”

Felix narrowed his eyes at the wall, which did nothing to help him. Felix’s coldness had always been a barrier, a shield against those he couldn’t afford to care about. But Sylvain was immune to it, negating everything with just a smile and a few clever words. Felix knew that he’d find some excuse to keep coming, some way to keep himself just close enough to further burden Felix.

What was that old saying? ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer’?

Felix huffed, brushing by Sylvain to get to the front desk. He rummaged in the drawers, fingers flipping through files. Far in the back was a small stack of his information—skills, timeslots, rates, safety precautions, etc. Admittedly, his pile of papers was much bigger than the others’, since he didn’t actively look to recruit more students.

With a huff, he slapped one of the sheets on the counter, glaring at Sylvain expectantly. “Fine. Here.”

Sylvain simply kept smiling—the smile no smaller or greater than the one he wore before—and sauntered over. He leaned his elbow on the counter, chin resting on the back of his hand as he picked up the sheet. His eyes ran over it slowly, lips running over the words.

Felix turned his attention to the tablet docked at the desk, shifting through his schedule. Most people did late morning or mid-afternoon appointments, meaning he feasibly could do something early or late. It wasn’t like Felix had any concerns about walking to his home or work in the dark.

“Felix,” Sylvain said, tone tinged with concern, “this is . . . like really cheap.”

Felix snorted. “You’re the first one to complain.”

“Felix, I’m serious.” Sylvain tried to catch Felix’s gaze, but Felix pointedly ignored him, instead looking over his calendar. An appointment in a half hour . . . so no salvation there. “Caspar and Raphael charge three times this!”

“They’re both paying for school.” Felix said, glancing up with a glare. “I just need to pay rent.”

Sylvain rubbed his temples, letting out a frustrated noise. “You have, what, five appointments a day? That would pay rent in . . . like . . . the rough side of Gautier, _maybe_.”

Felix snatched the paper from his hand, tossing it back into the drawer. He kicked it shut, at least somewhat enjoying the way Sylvain twitched at the slam. “It’s none of your business.”

Sylvain frowned, eyebrows knitted together. “You’d only have to charge half again the price and you could live somewhere . . . less dangerous.”

“I can handle myself fine.”

“Sure, I mean, probably. But—”

“I’m done with this conversation.” Felix turned from the desk, beelining it for the breakroom.

Of _course,_ Sylvain trotted behind. “I was just saying—”

“I’m done.” Felix growled, opening the door only enough for him to slip through. “Leave me alone.”

“B-but our sessions—”

“Train with Caspar.” Felix slammed the door behind him, almost annoyed that Sylvain’s nosiness wasn’t rewarded with a broken nose.

While it was foolish to hope that Sylvain would get the point—it was becoming increasingly clearer that Sylvain wouldn’t get anything he didn’t want to, not even if it hit him on the head—Felix did have some hope. After all, when Felix did finally leave the sanctuary of the break room, there was no Sylvain. The man wasn’t leaning against the wall, or lingering behind corners, or trying to be subtle on the machines. Which meant Felix could take his appointments in peace. He let them run as long as the others wanted, even if it meant it extended far past his normal lunch time.

Of course, his hopes were dashed the moment he stepped outside for his break.

Because there was Sylvain, leaning against the wall, half dazed as his mind ran over something important—or merely considered the possibility of a nap. His gaze was quick to land on Felix, though, and he bounced over like a puppy.

At least Sylvain seemed to have the decency to look sheepish. “I crossed a line this time. I get it.” He tilted his head toward the restaurants down the street. “Can I make it up to you?”

Felix bit the inside of his cheek. “Are you trying to buy my favor with food?”

Sylvain grinned. “Would it work?”

“No.”

“Can I buy you lunch anyway?”

Felix turned away. “All the restaurants are closed.” It was the main reason why he left at this time. All of the decent ones closed right after the lunch rush to prepare for dinner. While it relegated him to drug store sandwiches, it at least meant that Sylvain couldn’t bribe him again. Or so he hoped.

“There’s a good curry place two blocks down.” Sylvain mused, nodding his head in the vague direction. “I know the owner, so he’ll let us eat past hours.”

Felix glared.

Felix wanted to curse himself and his weakness for spicy food as he took another bite of his lunch. It was probably the best thing he’d had all week—the spices stung at his senses, lingering more on his tongue with every bite. The right mixture of textures, the deep flavor—it brought a warmth to his chest that he hadn’t enjoyed in a long time. He wasn’t much of a cook—he wasn’t a cook at all, really—but even he knew that this sort of quality was well out of his budget.

He hadn’t been understating when he said his job paid rent. It pretty much _only_ paid rent, with his stipend for food coming from the occasional extra lesson. But since most people in the area also didn’t have much money, it meant the food surrounding them was cheap, so he could afford it. Food like this, though, was well out of his imagination.

“So,” Sylvain said, poking at a piece of chicken with his fork, “can we at least talk?”

“You’re talking now.” Felix said, before taking another mouthful of food.

“That’s not what I meant.” Even if his voice was chiding, Sylvain’s lip quirked into a smile. “I mean can we talk about why you got so mad?”

Felix glared up at him.

“It’s not bad to be paid what you’re worth.”

“It’s none of your business.”

Sylvain’s smile slid into something sly. “How about I guess?”

“How about you drop it?”

“It didn’t escape my notice that all of your offerings are for self-defense. At least the ones you list, anyway.”

“So?” Felix glared down at his bowl. “So does Raphael.”

“So, let’s say you live in a rough neighborhood—I’m not saying you do, just for instance—see a bunch of people who want to feel safe, and can’t afford the normal stuff. And here you are, a guy who just wants to pay rent. Can protect himself enough to not care where he winds up. Seems like a good trade-off.”

Felix shrugged. “It pays rent. It’s what anyone would do.”

“No, it’s not.” Sylvain hummed, glancing out the window. “Normal guys like me would _still_ charge more. Low enough that you know they’d keep coming, high enough that you don’t have to suffer for it.”

“I didn’t ask what _you_ would do.”

Sylvain hummed, amusement still clear in his eyes. This was infuriating; most people were turned away by Felix’s irate personality, annoyed by his lack of gratitude or charm. Why wasn’t Sylvain? “What if I sponsor you?”

“What?”

“You know, pay you the rates that the others get paid. Fill the gaps left by your other customers.” He shrugged. “It would at least be enough to afford something in the Varley district, or something.”

Felix narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t great at math, but even he knew how quickly ‘filling the gaps’ would add up. “You must get paid a lot for a glorified door guard.”

“Far more than I’m worth.” There was something odd in Sylvain’s gaze, something uneasy in his smile. Felix thought better than to comment on it. “But my dad doesn’t need to know that.”

“So why use it to help me?”

“Entirely self-serving.” Sylvain tilted his head, no doubt like he’d do if he was trying to flirt his way into a girl’s pants. “I still want you to spar with me.”

Felix looked away, trying to ignore the heat on his cheeks. “Fine.”

It wasn’t as bad as Felix feared, sparring with Sylvain. True, Sylvain was insufferable. And, regrettably, Sylvain’s presence made those dreams come back at an increasing frequency. Felix found, thankfully, that no matter the length of the dream, only a couple seconds ever passed in the real world. That was easy to make excuses for. Plus, the extra pocket money _did_ have its uses. There were no nights with an empty stomach. And he was sure that, within a month or so, he’d be able to afford a better place to stay.

But there was also the fact that Sylvain was a good sparring partner. He was a quick learner, even if he didn’t often let on that he was. Felix could see it in the way that Sylvain’s stance and strategy changed with each session, even if slightly. He could tell how much closer their rounds were, how much harder Felix’s breaths came out after each round, how much more tired his muscles were at the end of their session. Sylvain was a challenge, and it was increasingly more likely that Felix would lose to him.

Felix dodged under a fist, shifting his weight to land a blow. But Sylvain wasn’t where he expected—he instead had already ducked low, and Felix could only watch as his own legs were knocked from under him.

Felix groaned as his back hit the mat. He shifted to roll, but it was too late; Sylvain already had him pinned, knees at Felix’s hips and hands pinning Felix’s wrists. Sylvain’s grip was strong; even though Felix squirmed, the most he could manage was a slight shift of his torso and a futile kicking of his feet.

Sylvain grinned, face far too close to Felix’s.

_Felix is pinned, the shaft of a lance making it impossible for him to move his shoulders and neck. Sylvain’s chuckling, spurred on more by Felix’s scowl and sputtering at an impossible loss. Sylvain leans in, kissing Felix’s lips with an almost chaste affection, then his cheeks, forehead, under his jaw, everywhere he can reach with Felix unable—and perhaps unwilling, despite his protests—to shove him away._

“Looks like I win.” Sylvain hummed.

“Fine,” Felix growled, unable to restrain the heat in his face, “you win. Just get _off_.”

Sylvain’s grin was still insufferable, but at least he backed off, choosing instead to sit on his heels. He set his elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. “Anyone ever tell you you’re cute when you blush?”

Felix scoffed, straightening his shirt as he sat up. “No.”

“Well, that doesn’t make sense.” Sylvain hummed, eyes narrowing. “I mean, unless you never—”

“Drop it, Sylvain.”

Sylvain blinked; the look behind his eyes was _not_ a good sign. “So . . . no one ever catch your fancy, or . . .?”

Felix stood up, brushing off his pants and heading toward the door. A dull throb radiated behind his eyes, a brief warning for something much worse.

“It’s just a simple question, Felix.” Sylvain protested, the mat squeaking as he jumped to his feet. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“The session is over.” Felix grumbled, leaving the training room and heading for the break room. There were painkillers in there, but he was pretty sure they wouldn’t help. The lack of a certain noisy redhead would probably help a little.

“Um, okay.” Sylvain walked alongside him. Felix could see him wave in his periphery as he tried to catch Felix’s attention, but Felix only ignored him more. “Well, how about lunch?”

“No.” Felix said, sliding into the breakroom and shutting the door behind him.

He fell back against the door, running his fingers through his bangs. His thumbs rubbed at his temples, making small circles against his skin. This was . . . not going to work.

He could pretend that Sylvain’s presence was just a momentary burden, that there were no effects that he couldn’t overcome. But that wasn’t true. Sure, Felix could go through the motions of his day, pretend that he was having a normal day.

But the emotional toll—ha, to actually consider _emotions_ in this mess was humbling— _that_ was worse. It was wearing down at him, plucking at him piece by piece. And with every fragment, he was losing track of what was real and who he was.

Because he had been able to control it easier before all this, when he knew it was _just_ in the dream.

Before they’d become nightmares, Felix _knew_ that he loved the Dream-Sylvain as much as the other him did. This Sylvain was the person he could cry to, who could wipe away his tears with a gentle smile. Even if Felix and his dream counterpart didn’t have the same problems, it was still like Dream-Sylvain was _there_ , like he was anything and everything Felix needed to ease his worries.

As he got older, Felix realized that no one in the waking world compared to this Dream-Sylvain. No one captured his attention in the same way; no one would evoke the same feelings and sentiments. As pathetic as it was, Felix didn’t bother pursuing anyone—or tolerate being pursued—for this very reason.

And it bit him when his dreams shifted. The betrayal tore at his chest in the same way it must have wounded the Dream-Felix, except Felix didn’t get to enjoy the relief of death. From then, it had made sense to just avoid attachments altogether. The nightly betrayal had numbed any other emotion—yearning, longing, loneliness—and it sunk into his bones, being as much a part of his being as anything else. What was the point of a relationship if all he ever knew was broken trust and a shattered heart?

If the mess of dreams and the emotions associated with them weren’t bad enough, _now_ Felix had to contend with the real ones. Sylvain had warped everything with that bright smile of his, turning his mind into a vortex that Felix couldn’t escape from. He couldn’t tell if his growing attachment to Sylvain was just an echo of the dreams—an echo of passions and sentiments that his mind craved to experience again—or if it was something real—a heart warmed by an easygoing affection that he’d never allowed himself before. It was impossible to tell if the reminder of betrayal was a misplaced fear—nothing grown from nothing—or a warning—a lifelong attempt to spare him from an undeserved fate.

He couldn’t even pretend that he knew. Any attempt to steady himself only made everything worse.

A hand settled on his shoulder and Felix instinctively flinched. “Felix?” 

Felix’s eyes snapped up, the motion not helping a growing unease in his stomach. He had to be stable, had to set himself right. Had to . . . make up for not checking the room before looking like a weak fool.

“Are you alright?” Ignatz frowned, slowly pulling his hand back. His cheek was stained with the paint from his afternoon practice, but it was hardly as distracting as the concern written all over his face. “You look pale.”

Felix brought his hands down from his face, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“It’s just a headache.”

Ignatz inhaled sharply.

Felix immediately realized his mistake; he never complained of anything, not even the one time he’d rather badly twisted his ankle or sprained his arm. “Really, it’s—"

“You don’t have any more appointments today.” Ignatz said, crossing his arms. Was he trying to look intimidating? “Take the rest of the day off. We’ll cover for you.”

Felix opened his mouth to argue, but stopped himself. What was the point? He didn’t want to be here, and any help he could provide would be minimal. There was no use making himself _and_ the customers suffer.

He nodded.

The city during the day was so different from early morning or late evening. There were too many people moving around, chattering loudly about things Felix was sure no one cared about. It was a struggle to ignore them, an even greater struggle not to pummel the man who thought everyone wanted to hear his phone conversation.

True, the streets did quiet as he neared his apartment. But of course they did; most people were wary about this area in general, especially during the day. The night was for the parties and drinking and general debauchery. The day was when this part of Gautier showed what it was really like.

But just another couple blocks, and he’d be home.

“Fraldarius!”

Felix ignored the voice. He knew it well enough, knew that it would do nothing for the pounding headache. All the owner ever offered was endless frustration, and perhaps more anger than Felix normally bothered with.

He could see two men’s reflections in the windows as he walked by, quickly gaining on him. And he was still too far from home. Lovely.

“You hear me, Fraldarius?” They jumped in front of him, facing him, hoping to stall. Felix kept pushing forward, forcing them to stumble backward just to match his pace.

Felix glared. “What do you want?”

One of the men smiled. “We were just saying ‘hi’.” Always that fake civility. Their boss practically mandated it, desperate to keep Gautier’s relationship stable with the Adrestian government. Felix knew better.

“You’re never out this time of day.” The other added. “They finally fire you for your attitude problem?”

Felix merely walked faster, shoving past them.

“Oh, come on.” They complained. “When are you just gonna give up and take up the Boss’ offer?”

Felix snorted. They were tailing him, and they were tailing close. It wasn’t a surprising thing; this wasn’t the first time they’d done it. Normally, he’d have already found a way to get around them, or at least distract them enough to lose them. He couldn’t bring them home, not if he wanted to cling to whatever chance at rest he had left.

But his head was pounding, _begging_ for him to just get home.

“I’m not interested in being a Gautier thug.” Felix growled, scrunching his eyes shut for a moment. It did very little to help. He needed a dark room and a cool compress to the back of his neck.

“Oh, _that’s_ right.” Their pace increased. “Fraldarius can’t fraternize with the likes of us because daddy’s in the senate. It’d be shameful to hang around our type.”

“ _No_.” He hissed as he whipped around, voice full of vitriol. He would _not_ be linked with his father. “I’m just not wasting my time with _you_.”

It was a mistake. The momentary delay from facing them was just enough of an opening. One grabbed at his shoulders, slamming him against the nearest building. Felix’s head cracked against the stone, making his head spin.

“We’re being nice because the Boss liked your potential and your connections.” One hissed in his ear. Felix’s eyes were so blurred that he couldn’t make out who. “We don’t have to play nice, Fraldarius. Not if you’re being so stubborn.”

Felix’s lip curled, struggling to keep himself under control. Any weakness, and they’d devour him like wolves. He kept his breathing slow, tried to watch every blink he took to make sure it didn’t seem nervous as he tried to refocus his vision. He tried to keep his glare firm; if they saw him looking around, they’d think he was trying to escape.

Escape, he knew, would be difficult. He could probably take one down, but he wouldn’t get past the other unmarred. And, considering the area, there was little doubt in his mind that their cronies would come running. These were Gautier’s enforcers for a reason, even if they were a pack of morons. He’d wind up surrounded and beaten, left in a state that he certainly couldn’t work in.

There was an easy way out. If he gave in—decided to meet with Gautier—then they’d let him pass. But conceding here would be the end of it. He’d not be afforded another opportunity out. He’d wind up among them, else pay a more extreme price.

And if Felix had enough principles to refuse to work for his father, he had more than enough to refuse to bend a knee to the glorified thug that their boss was.

“Is there a problem here?” The voice was light, airy—too familiar. A hand rested on the shoulder of the one pinning Felix, fingers pressing into the leather of the man’s coat.

His head snapped around. “Would you just fu—” Felix felt him twitch, sudden shivers matching his words. “M-M-Mr. Gautier.”

Felix’s gaze snapped over. No, that wasn’t _the_ Gautier. Felix had seen him only once, but he knew what the man looked like. Mr. Gautier was a man in his fifties, with a mess of scars and markings that proved his competence. With red hair like fire, speckled with grey that only proclaimed his experience. With a large group of men around him, ready to make _anyone_ disappear.

This . . . this was just Sylvain.

Sylvain’s smile widened fractionally, cutting as a knife as he dug his fingers more into his victim’s shoulder. “Well?”

“S-sir,” the other cut in, his state no better than his comrade’s, “we were just following your father’s orders. He wanted us to recruit Fraldarius, and—”

Sylvain snapped, and lightning sparked around the man’s body, making him crumble to the floor. Felix couldn’t see too much from his angle, but he could see the sparks still flickering off his body. He could hear every pained breath as the man groaned, eyes flicking around wildly as he tried and failed to move.

“Now then,” Sylvain said, voice chilling, “do we want to try again?”

Felix glanced up. That face—he knew that face too well. Knew the iciness in Sylvain’s eyes, the hollowness in his smile. Felix had been looking at it for years—and he was not going to stay long to see what happened after.

With a sharp exhale, Felix punched the underside of his captor’s jaw as hard as he could with his palm. He grimaced at the sound of teeth clacking together, at the sight of his head snapping back. The man fell back, collapsing on his still-paralyzed friend.

Sylvain whistled, and Felix turned on his heel to go home. He was not going to linger here. An unconscious man on a paralyzed one would buy him enough time, but it wasn’t going to give too much.

“H-Hey!” Sylvain protested. “Wait—Felix!”

Felix didn’t bother increasing his pace as he heard Sylvain’s shoes hit the cement. Sylvain’s legs were longer, and ultimately, he was faster. Even if Felix ran, he was sure Sylvain could catch up—and that was even _before_ he was in this exhausted state.

“Oh, come on,” Sylvain huffed, shifting his pace to be in line with Felix’s, “is that any way to thank the guy who saved you?”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“So, what, you would have just let them beat you to the ground, drag your body to their Boss until he gave you no choice but to—"

“Is that what _you_ do, Gautier?” Felix almost winced at the poison on his tongue. But that’s what the name was: a poison, an accusation. It seemed fair.

Sylvain winced, looking away. “No, but my father does.”

Felix huffed a bare imitation of a laugh. “So that ‘bar’ job was just bull, then.”

“I just . . .” Sylvain swallowed, “I just didn’t want you to . . . to think . . .”

It was like kicking a puppy. It was absolutely infuriating that Sylvain was making _Felix_ feel guilty. “Why are you even following me?” He hissed.

Sylvain’s expression shifted into something sheepish, uncertain. “Caspar said you were sick.” He shrugged, but it lacked his usual carefree energy. “I just wanted to make sure you got home alright.”

Felix rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, so you can leave.”

Sylvain grabbed his arm, spinning him around. “I don’t get it!” He yelled. For the first time, Felix actually saw what anger looked like on his face. “Why are you always so hostile?!”

Felix glared.

Sylvain let out a ragged breath, running a hand through his hair. “Every time I think I get you, you just—”

Felix sneered. “Why would you want to?!”

Sylvain flinched. Anger shifted to hurt, lips parted but struggling over words. He licked his lips, gaze flicking over Felix’s face like it might have an answer. His grip on Felix’s arm loosened. “I . . . thought we were friends.”

Felix snapped his arm away, continuing on his walk. “I don’t have friends.”

This time, Sylvain didn’t follow.

The next day, Sylvain didn’t show up at the gym; not for Felix’s session, and not for Caspar’s. Nor did he appear the day after that, or the one after that. He wasn’t at any of the equipment, wasn’t waiting outside the gym, nothing. It was as if he had just disappeared.

It wasn’t unusual for customers to vanish. Sometimes they moved, or found better gyms, or just got so fed up with Felix that they just left. It was the way the world moved; it was the way things went on here. It shouldn’t have been strange for Sylvain to suddenly leave.

But even Felix couldn’t convince himself that it was a universal truth. 

“So . . .” Caspar glanced over at Felix as both cleaned the equipment before lunch, “you two have a falling out?”

Felix glanced over, pausing as he wiped off the dumbbells. “Who?”

“You and Sylvain.”

Felix glared. “No.”

“Oh, huh.” Caspar blinked, somehow always oblivious to Felix’s looks. “Do you know where he is, then? He hasn’t even called me.”

“Why would I know—or care—where he is?”

“Well,” Caspar set one of the weights down, shifting to lean against one of the machines, “I kind of figured you two were a thing.”

Heat rose to Felix’s face. He looked away, focusing back on his work. “Absolutely not.”

“Well, the way that he’d just go on and on about you during our sessions—kinda seemed impossible for you _not_ to be a thing.” Caspar twisted the cleaning cloth in his hands. “Even Lin—"

“Not. A. Thing.” Felix hissed.

“Alright, alright.” Caspar said, hands up defensively. “But if you do see him again—”

Felix stormed off.

At first, he had thought this was what he wanted. He’d _wanted_ Sylvain to leave him alone. He’d hoped that it would set his brain back to normal—his dreams relegated to night, and chronologically settle as it should have. He’d thought that he’d gotten used to loneliness—finding comfort and safety in solitude.

And yet he still found himself going earlier to the gym in the hope that Sylvain would be there for their session, ready to challenge himself and Felix once again. Still he found himself going out to various places to eat, his mind trying—and failing—to imagine Sylvain’s constant chatter over lunch. Still he kept looking across the street and park, hoping that he might see those familiar golden eyes looking back at him.

If the aching in his chest wasn’t a reminder, the day dreams certainly were.

_An unoccupied room in the hall. Only a fabric dummy facing him on the training ground. An empty seat next to him at the dining table. A market without the familiar face harassing the workers. A meeting without his foil there by the King. A bed now too large alone._

_A blood-soaked battlefield, that familiar face staring back at him._

Felix threw himself more into his work, trying to ignore the way the Dream-Felix’s aching hollowness resonated too easily with him now. It was better to let the exhaustion dominate his mind than the memories.

Felix groaned, falling onto his bed. Between reorganizing the weights and taking on a few of Caspar’s sessions, he had wrung his body of everything that it was worth. It was good, though, meant that none of those visions had crossed his mind today. Meant that he could fall asleep without overthinking.

Just as his eyes closed and his breathing slowed, his phone vibrated at his side, the rhythm like a constant heartbeat. He groaned, glaring at the too-bright screen.

He didn’t recognize the number. Well, at least wasn’t his father making another half-hearted attempt to reconnect. He could at least answer as thanks for that. 

“What.”

There was a soft, breathy chuckle on the other side of the line. “Well, I definitely got the right number.”

Felix glared at his ceiling. “Who is this?”

“Ah, yeah.” A small sigh. “It’s Sylvain. I . . . got your number from one of the business cards at the gym?”

Felix hummed, too tired to be annoyed. “That’s for business use.”

A soft exhale. “I . . . I figured. I just . . . I wanted to let you know that you don’t have to humor my appointments anymore. I mean you probably guessed already, but . . .”

It was like the tip of a knife pressing into his chest. Felix inhaled slowly, closing his eyes to repress it. “I see.”

Silence pressed between them, each second pushing the knife even deeper. Felix wanted to say something—he desperately did—but it was better this way. He had to believe that it would be better this way.

“Felix?” Sylvain’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Will you tell me why you’re mad at me?”

Felix opened his mouth and closed it again. Like he could ever say ‘ _I used to dream about you and now I’m sure you want to murder me_.’

“Felix,” there was a desperation in his tone, an edge to it that seemed impossible, “ _please?_ ”

Felix rubbed his face. No. This was for the best.

This was for the best.

“I . . .” Felix shook his head. “I can’t.”

There was silence on the other side, not even the sound of a breath. “Alright.” Sylvain muttered. His tone wasn’t bitter, or sad, or resigned—just hollow. “Goodbye, Felix.”

A small beep was the only sign that he hung up. Felix rolled onto his side, watching as the screen went to sleep. His reflection stared back at him, accusing him in a way Sylvain never voiced. He kept staring at it, like he expected the screen to light again with the same unidentified number, with the voice on the other side.

Maybe Felix would tell him next time.

_Sparks fly as their weapons clash, the magic inherent to each pitted against the other. Each strike is meant to kill, each parry merely an attempt for another few seconds of life. Failed attempts reflect in the bodies sprawled around them, a bloody painting drawn across the earth._

_Felix can’t fathom how many men have died here; he can only think of where his footsteps must go so he does not trip over them. They are dead. He must keep fighting._

_Exhaustion pulls at his limbs, making them slow and useless. His only salvation lies in Sylvain’s similar struggles, in the way he grunts as he raises his spear and how the blade never makes contact with Felix’s skin. Sylvain might be stronger, but he lacks discipline; and Felix’s discipline is the only reason he’s made it this far._

_‘The King has fallen!’ Someone shouts, and Felix’s world shatters._

_He spins his head around—can’t be, I need to help him, I need to—and he loses. The lance stabs through his side, pain blossoming like fire. Sylvain pulls the lance away, and Felix crumples to his hands and knees._

_He tries to get up, but his body is uncooperative and sluggish. He digs his sword into the ground, trying to stand, but all the energy has been sapped from his arm. He can’t get to his feet. He’s helpless, sitting there as the click of armor echoes in his head._

_The lance’s light radiates in the pool of Felix’s own blood below him. He can see his reflection—pathetic, weak, beaten. He can’t bear to face himself, so he looks up._

_Sylvain looks down at him, gaze dark. Blood that’s not his drips off his hair._

_Felix wants to swing his sword, cut him in two. He wants to punch him. He wants to yell. He doesn’t even have the energy to do much more than stare up at his lost friend._

_“Felix,” Sylvain’s voice is soft, “please join us.”_

_Felix’s stare warps into a glare._

_“Dimitri’s gone, Felix. Please.” Sylvain’s voice cracks. “I-If you come with me, maybe I can save you.”_

_Felix huffs a poor excuse for a laugh. “You must be joking.”_

_“Please, Felix.”_

_Felix sighs, his head dropping. “I . . . I can’t.”_

_Sylvain’s breath catches, and Felix closes his eyes. He can see the movement of the lance’s light behind his eyelids, can see it shift well above his head. It’s the path they’ve laid for themselves: one of them was going to die today._

_“Goodbye, Felix.”_

_The blade pierces through him, and Felix’s world falls into a white-hot blaze. It’s bright—too bright. Harsh and unwelcoming and nothing like the warmth he used to crave. He rejects it, trying to blink the light away._

_When he returns to his senses, he’s staring up at a blood-red sky. His body is completely unresponsive, only his lungs cooperating with him. But even breathing feels like swallowing fire._

_There’s a hiccup, sniffling, the occasional shaky exhale. Felix’s gaze falls from the sky, shifting to his side. There is Sylvain, kneeling beside him, body hunched as his shoulders shake with each and every sob. Tears flow freely down his face—something Felix had only seen when they were children._

_He wants to soothe him, but he can’t lift his hands, can’t utter a single syllable. His body is useless to him, only able to see Sylvain’s suffering._

_“I’m sorry.” Sylvain chokes out. He reaches a hand toward Felix, though he freezes before he makes contact._

_Felix wills him to touch, to gift him that fleeting sensation before he walks to oblivion._

_As if he can hear him, Sylvain’s hand cups Felix’s cheek, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “I’ll keep our promise.” He whispers. “I will.”_

Felix blinked awake with a groan. His head no longer hurt, at least, but that did little to quell his annoyance. He was annoyed at the water on his fingertips as he wiped his face. He was more annoyed at the way his stomach grumbled loudly at him. And he was _especially_ annoyed at the fact that his phone glowed in the dim light, reflecting an unpleasant _4:00 am_.

He sighed, sitting up in his bed; even if his stomach _would_ let him sleep, he had no desire to return to that dream. He didn’t fancy to see whatever else it was that the other Felix saw after that.

Instead, he got dressed, leaving his apartment; there was no point lingering in a place half empty and practically a corpse of its own. He could just get some caffeine, go to work, and will the day away.

There was one good thing to the early morning: no one was around. It was far past the time when drunks stumbled home, and well into the few hours when Gautier’s lackeys slept. It meant that the coffee shop on the way would be mostly empty—aside from a few pitiable businessmen—meaning he could get something and not suffer through the burnt grounds in the breakroom. It also meant that he could probably reorganize the gear in the training areas into something actually productive.

He stepped into the café, a little hole-in-the-wall place that probably made just enough to keep in business. It wasn’t like their coffee was special in any way, and somehow the shop itself was always cold. But it was the one place that was literally open for 24 hours a day, so it was pretty clear the guests couldn’t complain.

Even though Felix very much wanted to when he found the line was already five people long.

He sighed, glancing down at his phone. Well, it wasn’t exactly like he was in a rush. He flipped through the open pages to pass the time. He didn’t need that reincarnation search anymore—even if it _was_ true, it wasn’t like he was going to deal with Sylvain anymore. And his messages were mostly preoccupied by texts from his father—even though the old man had to know there was nothing for him there anymore.

The line shifted, and Felix’s gaze flicked up.

There, at the front of the line, was a familiar head of red hair. Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Scowling, Felix looked down to his phone again. If they didn’t make eye contact, maybe Sylvain wouldn’t see him. Or, if he had already, maybe he’d finally give up. Either way, all it took was for Felix to play oblivious. Even if he was a horrendous actor.

But there were, technically, plenty of work emails for him to go through. Some cancellations, some new requests, some people wondering if he could slip his prices even lower.

When it was his turn, he pocketed his phone, ordering something plain. He didn’t need any of that fancy nonsense—plain black was fine. Plus, it was cheap, and fast to make. When the whole bothersome transaction was done, he went to one of the high-top tables, waiting for his order.

Casually—or at least as casually as he could manage—he glanced across the room. No redheads anywhere inside. Not at the tables, or the counters, or among the other high-tops. Just people with chronic insomnia, early shifts, and tired-looking eyes.

For the moment, at least, Felix could relax.

When his coffee was ready, he proceeded on his journey to work. Or, he would have, had a familiar sensation not caused him to pause just outside the coffeeshop door.

“What do you want.” He muttered, glancing just off to his side. It was no surprise to see Sylvain there; the man’s presence had become just as noticeable as a winter breeze, or a rock in the shoe.

Sylvain opened his mouth, only to close it again. He looked away, giving Felix time to actually get a good look at him.

There was none of that easygoing charisma, instead replaced with a depressed demeanor as he looked at the cement. Dark bags sat under his eyes like he hadn’t slept for days—though, knowing his patterns, a lack of sleep shouldn’t even have phased him. He fidgeted with the cup in his hands, the contents clearly cold by now. In short, he looked like shit.

Sylvain’s thumb brushed over the lip of his cup. “. . . can we talk?”

Felix frowned. “I thought we’d said goodbye last night.”

Sylvain nodded, looking even more pathetic than before. He turned away.

Felix grabbed his sleeve before he could think. He glared at his own hand like it had betrayed him. “We can talk about here. I’ll . . . listen till I need to go to work.”

Felix didn’t have to look to see the way Sylvain’s expression brightened, even though it was dulled his sad state. Felix tried to ignore it, though he couldn’t ignore the way he let himself get pulled to one of the metal tables outside, Sylvain settling himself across from Felix.

And they sat there. In silence. Frigid metal pressed against Felix’s legs. Coffee did little to warm his fingers. Felix’s scowl deepened.

Sylvain merely sat there and stared at his coffee like it might have the answers.

“If you’re going to waste my time,” Felix growled, “I’m leaving.”

Sylvain looked away. “You know, I wondered why, the first time I saw you, you ran away.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “And why, when we met at the gym, you were so hostile to me.”

There was little point denying it, even Felix knew that. What he had done the first time was perhaps a dignified method of running away, but it _was_ running away regardless. And even he knew he had been unduly hostile, hating Sylvain for something he was utterly clueless about. But, in a world that didn’t want to spite him, that would have worked.

Instead, Felix sipped at his coffee. “Were you following me?”

Sylvain’s lip twitched. “No. Not on purpose anyway. I honestly _had_ been at that gym for ages and never saw you, but—”

“But?”

Sylvain buried his face in his hands. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

Felix merely set down his coffee and crossed his arms, eyebrow raised expectantly.

Sylvain peeked through his fingers. “The first day I saw you—I dunno—it was like seeing an old friend that I haven’t seen for years. I wanted to catch up to you, to see if I _did_ know you, but . . .”

Felix looked away. Sylvain saw an old friend. For Felix, it was like seeing a lion in the streets. If he stayed, he was sure to die. If he ran, he _could_ be caught, but at least there was a chance he would survive. He’d been so overtaken by his own instinct that he hadn’t even considered how it looked.

Sylvain’s hands rubbed across his face, finding a new place at the back of his neck. “And then I saw you _everywhere_. At first I thought _you_ were following _me.”_ He laughed weakly. “It wouldn’t be the first time an assassin was sent after me. But . . .” his expression fell, “but what kind of assassin runs away? What kind of assassin looks terrified of you?”

“I wasn’t afraid.” Felix spat, though the argument was weak on his tongue. Well, he wasn’t afraid of _this_ Sylvain, at least.

Sylvain, thankfully, didn’t comment. “I was kind of relieved you didn’t run when we were at the gym, though I knew you wanted to. But, you know, sparring with you,” he shifted again, cheek resting in his palm, “it felt so natural. I’d never felt so at ease, so happy, in . . . ever.”

Felix glanced away. He knew that. When fighting with Sylvain, it felt like they had practiced for decades, earned a level of trust they could share with no one else. It was the only time he’d ever felt like everything clicked into place, like he had a place in the universe.

But it wasn’t from this life. No—if Felix’s suspicions were correct—it was from lifetimes ago, from a world they could never experience, and with effects they could enjoy but never work for.

“But it was like walking on glass. Anything I said could just . . . make you shut down again. And I couldn’t understand why.”

Felix merely sipped at his coffee. None of this was wrong, technically. What was the point in clarifying?

“I think,” Sylvain’s sheepish smile returned, “I think I know why, now.”

“This I have to hear.” Felix wished he felt as confident as he sounded. His heart thrummed inside his chest, and the coffee did nothing for the chill running up his spine.

“We knew each other before, didn’t we?”

Felix snorted, but it couldn’t hide the tension in his shoulders. “I’ve only lived in Gautier for five years.”

Sylvain leaned in a bit closer. “No, before that. Like, _way_ before.”

Felix snorted. “Unless you lived in the Hresvelg District, I doubt it.”

Sylvain exhaled, everything pulling in. It was like he was afraid of getting hurt, or falling apart. “I killed you, didn’t I?”

Felix froze.

When Sylvain looked up at him, his smile was broken, despairing. “So I was right.” He exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. “I was right.”

Felix looked away, his throat tight. “How long have you known?”

“After our argument . . .” Sylvain sighed, “I had a dream about you. And, and at first I thought it was just my mind playing tricks on me. You know, telling me I fucked up.” He shook his head. “But . . . But I kept dreaming about you. A-and daydreaming about you.” He chuckled, the sound a painful combination of affectionate and broken. “And I know it's not you but it also _is_ you and—and it was about us running around together as kids, and you warming my hands after I was stuck in the snow, and us sparring together, and you scolding me at school and---and—and—” Sylvain swallowed, looking away. Even in the dim light, Felix could see his cheeks tinged in pink.

Felix’s mind flashed to those memories—to the close spaces and soft touches—and he had to look away, his face heating up.

“Hey,” Sylvain said, voice soft, “can I try something?”

Felix glanced over to Sylvain. Immediately, his shoulders tensed.

_A book in front of Felix, an attempt to learn something entirely foreign to him. Across, Sylvain is muttering something—probably trying to help. And then he goes silent. Felix looks up, only now noticing Sylvain staring at him. A scold goes unheeded, and Sylvain laughs. He leans in and—_

Felix blinked, the memory shattering as Sylvain’s lips pressed against his. It was a soft touch—almost chaste—and yet it was enough for Felix’s mind to become his own—no echoes of panic, no pain of betrayal—just a focus on the contact between them.

Sylvain pulled away slightly, smile shy. “I’m guessing, since you didn’t punch me, that was okay?”

He was so close that Felix could still feel Sylvain’s breath against his lips. “I don’t know.” He muttered, voice as uncertain as he felt. But the memories didn’t snap back to him, didn’t mingle into reality. It was just this moment, just the two of them.

Slowly, Felix leaned back, letting his mind settle into the feeling of just _his_ mind, and just _his_ emotions. It was a strange feeling, but it wasn’t unwelcome. There were the echoes of thoughts, sure, but those were the memories of dreams—a lingering sensation that would inevitably last forever from decades of dreaming.

Sylvain sighed, resting his chin in his palm. “He used to dream about taking the other you away, you know. Just run away and hide from the mess and the war. Find a home, get dumb jobs, grow old together.”

Felix swallowed, returning to coffee that was now cold. He knew. Of _course_ he knew. The other Felix had the same thoughts as he whittled away at a training dummy with his sword. He’d think of a red beard with flecks of grey, rough and scratchy as they kissed. He’d think of a ramshackle cottage in the middle of nowhere, just the two of them working together to survive. He’d think of nights curled together on a hard bed, Sylvain’s arm wrapped around him.

“He knew the other Felix would never leave.” Sylvain muttered. “And he was too stuck in his own head to leave, either.”

Felix snorted. That was definitely true enough for the other Felix, too.

“But,” Sylvain licked his lips, “I don’t have those commitments. So . . . we could run away together, if you wanted.”

Felix sputtered, coffee splattering onto the table. “You don’t even know me.”

“No.” Sylvain grinned, “But I want to. And I want to spite the old me for being such an idiot. And maybe do better than he ever did.”

Felix swallowed. There were things the other him had done—stupid, foolish things—acts of jealousy, anger, hurt—things he never should have bothered with if he ever wanted to get what he wanted. There were so many things he could have done to keep Sylvain as his.

“Felix, I’m not saying we leave together and then you _have_ to stay with me. I want us both to have a fresh start, without our past selves screwing it up.” His smile was soft, affectionate. “And, if you ever want to leave, you can.”

Felix pressed his lips together. The memories were gone, for now, but there was no guarantee they’d stay that way. But he couldn’t deny that they were quiet _now_.

And . . . and what if they stayed that way forever?

The memory of the battlefield flickered in his mind. Maybe the memories were still a warning, or maybe this Sylvain was better. Maybe it was something entirely unrelated.

All Felix knew was that the thoughts quieted altogether when he grabbed Sylvain’s shirt and kissed him again—far less innocent in nature than their first.

“I’ll give you a chance.” He muttered against Sylvain’s lips.

Sylvain smiled as he closed the gap once more. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to make this short, but I also wanted to create a whole universe around this idea. This was my compromise. 
> 
> Clarifiers from the work:  
> 1) Real world and Fodlan-canon elements are essentially thrown into a blender. That's how you get a modern thing like a gym, but the things they're practicing are along the schools in the Academy (brawling, lance, etc.)  
> 2) There is still magic in this world, but it's been so diluted that it's pretty much useless  
> 3) The districts that Felix and Sylvain talk about aren't the noble regions in the game. Instead, the story actually takes place in Enbarr, which has expanded to cover a lot more ground. To help differentiate the areas in Enbarr, they refer to certain blocks as Districts, which are named after the individuals who helped Empreor Edelgard expand Adrestia.  
> 4) Felix's father, Rodrigue, works as a member of the Adrestian government. Glenn was, too, before he died.
> 
> As always, come find me on Twitter [@kayisdreaming ](https://twitter.com/kayisdreaming).


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